please don't google that

This is my first time experiencing the so called ‘monday of shitdom’. Like, you know, when people overexaggerate how monday is the worst day of the week with all the bad things happening and friday is the god of all week days.

So far I’ve woken up with an earth shattering toothache w/that incapacitated me from doing anything productive for academics. The right side of my face is probably swollen up right now.

So yeah, coupled with my shitty financial burden and ultra immature bum aunt and my over dramatic grandmother stressing out my mom, I have to be at school. Without decent socks.

And here I am, cutting classes like a fugitive.

You know what the fucking lady guard does? Reprimand me (and only me despite the other students in the same predicament) about my rubber-made black shoes, saying it’s supposed to be leather. Fucking bitch I’ve been wearing this shit since last semester. She was in a bad mood and taking it out on people- which the guards here are prone to do at uni. Anyway, I didn’t want to get confrontational since I had a toothache and I might end up stabbing her with a ballpoint pen so I just gave her my ID (which will now make it twice as hard to get in and out of school till Wednesday when I can claim it- fucking surprise, I don’t even have classes on wed) and she handed me the piece of reprimand paper.

So then I bought my book for busscon. and being a few minutes early for my 1pm class, I went to the bathroom to try and salvage my downtrodden appearance- but of course I forgot my fucking essentials. Then I also remember that I forgot my heavyass book for 1st period like fuck (which I bought last time and my prof was supposed to check last time). Oh, there goes the bell.

I’ll probably be fucking late for typing this up on my droid.
Ugh, toothache starting to act up again despite the painkillers. Fuck me.

So when [person] comments, “I almost feel sort of pretty today,” when [person] gets new clothes, a new cut, or simply because of the daylight touching and illuminating [person]’s face in all the right angles-

I always hold back the urge to say, ‘You’ve always been pretty anyway. I can’t fathom there ever being a time when you might think otherwise.’

I can’t really explain it.

It’s not that I like [person] in a romantic sense, nor are we super bffs to require such. I just think there’s something inherently beautiful about [person] that doesn’t change. I don’t know if it’s [person]’s genes, [person]’s mannerisms, [person]’s character. Or maybe simply [person] as a whole.

[Person] is beautiful. But [person] genuinely seems not to know it yet.

It’s a little frustrating, because these thoughts are borne out of pure observation. I don’t intend to make [person] feel good or happy. I don’t intend to praise [person]. It just is , you see? I see it, someone claims otherwise, it puzzles and disturbs me. [Person] is more than a superficial object whose beauty can be quantified by mere physical attributes that change so easily. However much [person] restructures [person]’s self, [person] stays pretty. Stays beautiful. In the way [person] laughs, in the way [person] speaks, the words that [person] chooses to say… A lot of inconsequential somethings that probably amount to nothing and everything all at once.

If [person] might be reading this, then I hope you’d carry at least a little hope that you’re not just occasionally pretty. That aside from either the fanatic infatuation romantic relationships bring or the ostensible awe that a face gives, there are also people who have pretty much nothing to do with you, no reason whatsoever to like you- they just see that it isn’t your face that’s pretty today. It isn’t your current words that are worth praise today. It’s just… you.

Don’t even know why I’m writing this in the dead of the night with coffee being my only companion but… yeah. There you have it.

I was raised in a family where hugs only happen once or twice a year when I was five then pretty much none when I passed twelve. (Now before you assume I had a shitty childhood, it was awesome actually. I didn’t like touching, even back then.)

I’ve had few very close friends in my short seventeen years of life, none of whom are inclined to hair-fondling, shoulder-to-head-leaning, hand-holding, body-hugging, cheek-kissing, and other forms of casual physical contact.

Is this me over thinking things again? Yes, yes it is. I tend to do that a lot. It’s a sick habit that I sometimes love and sometimes want to stab the shit out of. Because really, who puts too much thought into the simple act of linking fingers between same-sex platonic friends, enough to write a blog post about it? Who the fuck even freezes at the slightest arm-over-your-shoulders-in-a-loose-friendly-way action?

Me, that’s who.

I know that shit about accepting oneself and all, plus the mantra that it’s okay to be different, but dear gods I just can’t get over the fact that some people can do this without giving it a second thought while a million pointless buzzfeeds run through my mind.

So now I’m trying to figure out why. I need to give myself a leeway and purge this out of my head.

Plausible Reasons Why I am Uncomfortable With Casual Skinship

1. I over think things.

Like I said, I pay too much attention to irrelevant details. It’s another one of those instances where I know I’m not supposed to analyze too much but I still end up doing so, which in turn gives way to more resentful thinking. I don’t want to offend anyone, I don’t want anyone to think I’m weird either.

2. I have never been in any honest to goodness romantic relationship.

Maybe people get used to this kind of thing after frolicking in the romance department with someone. I don’t know. Is it supposed to help? Will the consciousness for physical interaction lessen when you do it frequently?

I have no answers.

3. I’m a maniac.

I’m well known in high school for my less-than-innocent musings (read: I am well known for being a pervert, *in spirit*). Though it’s a source of a lot of laughs for everyone (myself included) when I twist things into a comical-sexual context, being an auto-perv-filter has its disadvantages. Not only do I over think things, I see them in a perverse light too.

I’m like, ‘Shit I know I’m not supposed to be thinking this but I am oh god no brain don’t go there BAD BRAIN, BAD! Go back to your corner.’ (This is what’s going on inside while I am freezing rigid and expressionless.)

Like, I don’t even like him/her that way or ever seen him/her that way but SURPRISE INNER BRAIN THEATER FLASH!

It sucks.

.

Now I’ve gotten that out of the way, I hope I can move on from this topic and not fucking trip or break out into a messy sweat whenever I experience such. I might add a few others when they crop up again.

Let me clear this up: I appreciate the act itself. I appreciate the idea that you’re comfortable enough to do this with me. I appreciate that, without even thinking about it that much, you reflexively reach out for my hand or sling your arm around mine. I just don’t know what to think or how to stop thinking about it too much. Yeah well, now I type this out to think why I think about it an awful lot. [THINKCEPTION] (I am very confused right now.)

Have I mentioned how much I hate wearing bras? Like, really, who’s the brilliant fucker that sexualized the concept of nipples? First, we get one hell of an idealized woman figure, achieved mostly by wearing corsets and push-up bras to make ’em boobies look more erotic. Then the next century rolls along: it’s when you don’t wear them that you’re considered obscene!

It’s great that some people want to wear bras for their own personal reasons and all, but why can’t the opposite be true for others? Like, I don’t want to wear bras ’cause most are constricting, tight, harmful and just fucking uncomfortable. But of course, if I don’t wear bras in public, it’s taken as a bold statement. It’s an invitation for sexual advances. It’s daring, it’s something explicit.

Just fucking why? Does wearing a bra make anyone else think that there MIGHT be something other than boobs underneath them? We sure fooled society then.

And also this fact: when a strap is showing, some people make it a point to hiss secretively, ‘your strap is showing!’ [Insert dramatic gasp plus blushing and all that cartoon crap]. Well woopdee fucking do, you’ve discovered my secret! Oh no, someone has seen the strap and will therefore conclude that I wear bras and that I- god forbid! – have boobs.

Shit fucking niggity, what the hell is wrong with everyone? It’s like we’re raising a pack of horny wolves who will hump someone at the peek of an undergarment.

What will really prove my point though is when this post is actually read by dudes who don’t understand the discomfort this garment provides, and would then snicker like the average hormonal shitface in highschool about a girl not wanting to wear a bra. Oh, all the possible sexual innuendos I can throw her way, amirite? Let’s not exclude the few (or is it really just a few) dudettes who are quick to side with the patriarchy by joining in with the ridicule. As if they don’t know how uncomfortable it is. As if they truly buy the idea that being sexualized, being harassed, being called a slut, being held to impossibly high and destructive standards of uniform beauty is all their fault simply for being female and following the double-standard trends and expectations society has heaped upon them.

Yes I feel the yawn for the above paragraph. Ew, where are the bras? Talk about more bras, I came here for the boobies and the cynical humor.

Why, of course.

The last thing I want to do is disappoint and hurt you, I think I’m gonna buy ice cream before we get to the physical harm.

Is it just me being a rabid feminist or am I actually on to something?

You see, on the TCCP (Tariff and Customs Code of the Philippines), I noticed that aircrafts, ships or any other vessel for transportation is generally referred to as ‘she’ or ‘her’, whereas it’s automatically assumed that the one manning the said vessel or the one that’s addressed in any shipping, tax, import or export laws for compliance and execution is male.

This has bothered me for quite a while ever since I got my first major subject last semester that dealt with volume II of the TCCP. I put it aside eventually as some minor concern compared to my impending examinations. It was quickly forgotten.

But the issue resurfaced recently after having this particular conversation with my parents about the profession I chose. I dropped by the store just as my mom and dad were having lunch and the topic generally veered toward matters concerning my course.

As much as I love my mom, she has this sense of being insensitive when it comes to talking (or am I just too sensitive on a lot of topics?). When there’s someone dealing with loss, someone suffering from trauma etc., she’s likely to go on a tirade about something that wasn’t intended to hurt, but actually does.

I knew it was in her best intentions to say that I had to pass the licensure exams with top marks. Keyword here is ‘had’, like it’s a requirement, and simply passing would render such achievement as invalid. It’s great to have high goals and all, really, but I wanted it to be mine. Something I wanted for myself, not another achievement I did for someone else’s approval (again. And again. And again.).

Anyway, I let it pass. Typical mom.

But one more thing I sort of dislike about mom is her tendency to be sexist.

Keep in mind that it was her who insisted I take up customs administration, with the pretense of making me choose my own course but actually pushing me to take this or that. I had no qualms though. I’m pretty neutral about most stuff concerning my own life so I don’t really have ‘passions’ to speak of. I accepted the course. Started to like it. Prepared to do it with the ‘diligence of a good father’.

So naturally I was flabbergasted when she told me that eventually I had to take up law after passing my licensure exam, since customs administration was a great pre-law course. Reason? Customs administration is not a course for women.

Ignoring the fact that she, once again, is hell bent on fulfilling her own stunted dreams on my behalf, I was offended about the idea that no matter how fucking good I was, no matter how hard I tried, society would still deem me insufficient and vulnerable. That was why I had to make it to the top ranks, according to her. If I passed, I would not be good enough. I needed a title greater than usual to even be respected and considered equal to a guy.

My dad retaliated by saying there are a lot of women in customs too. That a female broker’s papers are processed faster than a man’s. He abruptly stopped and did not press the issue further. In my family, I got my father’s heated temper, general indifference, and reluctance to show worry and affection. He would never outwardly talk about it, but I knew somewhere along the conversation, the fact that when her daughter graduates, she’d be subjected to harassment did enter his mind. It’s an awkward topic for both of us.

I went back to our other house, a stone throw away from the store, feeling affronted.

I can be good at my job, I thought. Why do I have to be subjected to stereotyping, of all things? It’s something I’ve avoided all my life, choosing to act less feminine, not quite masculine. Just a grey area where the opposite gender doesn’t fancy you, but neither do they group you with the third sex.

I just feel helpless I guess. Not because I’m female and in line with the belief that I’m not fit for my chosen profession, but about the fact that most people would never believe that I am.

I’m a sucker for recognition. Knowing someone out there thinks I might not be that great in doing this or that without even seeing what I do kills my newfound enthusiasm a little. I don’t know. I was raised this way, I guess. I feed on praise.

I wish I was just born with a dick and a flat chest. Society’s stigma would have been so lenient on me then.

So why are vessles referred to as ‘she’ and the pilot ‘he’? Maybe I wouldn’t be so outraged if we’re talking about pirates and sailors stuff here when it turns out that it has a perverse connotation, but it’s written law for godsake. It’s supposed to take everyone on equal terms.

Y’know, those hipster images that encourage us to discard negative thoughts and live for the joy of god and such.

The thing is, I don’t think being pessimistic is all that bad.

Optimists often go on with daily tasks thinking that at the end of the day, their efforts will bear fruit. They’ll get the juicy product of their labors and all their sacrifices will be worth it.

Pessimists on the other hand immediately assume the worst. Mom is fifteen minutes late? Probably a car crash. I am now an orphan. Group project for class? Most likely, I’ll mess everything up for everyone and not meet the deadline. I’ll fail this class.

If you put it into perspective, optimists are able to go on because they see something worth striving for. They hold on to this little ray of hope to continue. ‘Think positive’ is the mantra, no matter how shitty your day is turning out to be. At the end of it all, you’re learning/achieving/making something

Then what motivates the pessimist? They’re scared. They don’t want to expect anything in fear of being disappointed. Whatever they’d find in this figurative end of the tunnel is something frightening and unpredictable.

But they go on. They do it without even expecting much.

To some it might be a sad way of life, heaping this much unnecessary sorrow on things that have yet to happen. I beg to differ. Because when you set your standards low, so long as you still try (albeit resignedly), the unexpected triumph seems a thousand times sweeter. It’s like finally feeling a freezing drink slide down your throat in the middle of a scorching summer.

I’m not saying it’s better to be a pessimist. Neither am I implying optimists suck because they need to have some bone dangling in front of them to function. A little too much of everything is lethal. Be an optimist when you want to be. Be a pessimist if you feel the need to be. All I’m saying is that either mindsets have their purposes and whatever suits you best should be what you choose. Whatever makes you feels safe. Whatever makes you happy.

The impending examination week really isn’t the issue here (according to self-centered me). Truth be told, I always panic days before any test, nothing new about that.

The difference now lies in the fact that… well, that I’m actually doing something about it. I’m studying folks- really, I shit you not good sirs. With all the making-my-own-reviewer-from-my-own-notes shit.

Four days before the exam is quite pathetic to be proud of, I know, but give me some credit here. For years, I’ve been that annoying classmate who borrows your notes and handouts seconds before the actual major examination. The one who, minutes prior, was lounging around beside you, trying to drag you down with me in my vortex of laziness while you do some serious learning.

Sometimes it works for me. Sometimes it doesn’t. In high school it worked pretty much 95 percent of the time. I got high grades without really ever doing anything, and I thought that was great. I thought that was awesome (well, tbh I still do). But in college it’s a 50-50 chance of surviving, and I don’t like that type of statistic.

Lo and behold, in my third year of college, I finally decided to push back on the academic pull. Better late than never.

It’s not like I’m just writing my study-stuff now. I reviewed for some quizzes and made some legit notes on them the past few weeks too. Okay, fine. By quizzes, I actually mean this one single quiz in tariff2. (Which I garner was from the pits of hell itself with the deceitful title of ‘quiz’ and a grand total of fifty items- I. state this whole provision II. state laws/provisions and explain III. (I forgot. Must be trauma blocking my memories.) IV. enumerate 15 agencies and the commodities they regulate)

I have to admit, it was refreshing to know the answers. Thrilling to try and remember what I studied- and actually grasping something, instead of the usual ‘oh lol wait, I didn’t actually study anything.’

But as you can see, I am momentarily side-tracked. (By momentarily, I mean 4 hours at max). I’m writing a blog post instead of continuing my new found path to noble student behavior. Procrastination. It’s coming back.

Maybe that’s why I’m making this blog post. To give myself a pat on the back. (Although it sounds like a whiny rant of me trying to convince myself and justify my behavior for the present and past few years.)

I’m well aware that what I’m doing is still not something to be overly proud of. I am, after all, just doing what I’m supposed to be doing- studying what my parents are paying for in this damned expensive university.

I guess I just need someone to recognize that I’m actually trying. Even if that someone is just going to be me.

Okay. Enough of that. I’ve dilly-dallied enough. Gotta go back to dem studies. (Also a half-lie; I’ll probably waste another fifteen minutes getting this blog post published, checking my social networking accounts, finding some food, adjusting the electric fan to a suitable angle, and then finally, settling down on my desk- only to find out my pen is missing thus invoking me to commence a room-wide search that will take me another five minutes.